


Capsizing

by whisperbird



Category: Howl Series - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5481971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperbird/pseuds/whisperbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what good intentions he may have, Howl evading difficult things blows up in his face.  Again. At a loss getting him to not slither out, Sophie lets Calcifer help remedy the situation, in the only way he can: arguing with Howl about something else entirely until Howl is ready to argue with Sophie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capsizing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaberett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaberett/gifts).



> I tried to work in Calcifer and Sophie's dynamic as much as I could in several drafts. Then a sharing bonding experience over Howl's ... being Howl, sprang fully formed once I knew what they were commiserating over this time.

There's supposed to be a storm.

An order from the city of Porthaven comes to Jenkin the Sorcerer. They commission small divining spells, his being reasonably priced and  accurate, during seasons of unpredictable weather. What a comfort, for the mystery of the sea at her most turbulent, to be made predictable.

_The storm is coming on Monday._

Every sailor, fishing crew and anyone whose livelihood depends on calm waves takes immediate precaution. It takes a short time, a bustle of ropes and shouting, before crews consider the Porthaven boats safe. The vessels of all sizes float along the dock like forgotten, wriggling catches of an idle fisher. People stay indoors that evening. The streets, when Sophie opens the Porthaven door for a customer, are sparse for late summer; only a few residents attend business in the crimson burn of sunset. That kind of sky and the stillness chill Sophie. It might not if she didn't know of an impending storm; such is the power of suggestion. It's  _eerie,_ however,and puts her in the mind of something ominous and wicked. 

The customer doesn’t seem deterred by the atmosphere. In fact, he appears unable to hold back his grousing, while waiting to claim the cleaning spell his wife sent for.

“Red sky at night,” he mutters. “It certainly _looks_ calm.”

He snatches the packet from Sophie, distrust written in the wrinkled margins of his face. A fellow sailor walks past, clapping the man on the back with a shout. “Batten down the hatches, eh?”

And the storm never comes.

*

**Monday, 4 am**

_Jenkins the Sorcerer_ is asleep in the small hours of the morning when a sharp rap echoes through the house. It takes Sophie all of a bleary second from being startled awake to reach fury. She glances at Howl, who is snoring away with the peace of a man who has no reason to be otherwise. She listens, but no noise comes from Morgan down the hall. Thankfully.

Sophie’s internal tirade propels her out of bed and downstairs. _Awake at …_ (glance to hall clock) _four in the morning! Morgan’s sleeping without nightmares every night this weekend--_

Sophie moves through the kitchen bristling at the next volley of knocks.

_We are not open for business this early and I am going to shout at someone, sleeping baby be damned if they don’t stop knocking –_

She hauls open the Porthaven door, greeted with a lovely brush of soft, humid sea air, and the crew of a fishing vessel scowling from under their dry raincoats.

“Madam, as you can see,” says one of them brusquely, “ _it’s not storming_.”

*

**Monday, 10:30 AM**

“Maybe you misunderstood the date,” says Sophie. It is an appallingly peaceful summer day. Downy clouds drift like the docked ships, slow and lazy enough to cast lingering shadows along the ground. It’s nice enough to be a deliberate mockery of the weather report.

Around about ten, it becomes apparent that no storms will darken the horizon today; the clouds are all pure white. Two different anglers have come back to tell Howl exactly what they think of his divination.

“Docked the ships ‘til noon! Missed the morning’s fishing!” They all run together, grizzled old voices.

Another knock.

This time Sophie grunts and spins on her heels, glaring at the door she won’t open. Goodness, have these people never had a spell gone awry? _That’s what they get for putting faith in Howl!_  she thinks impetuously, even if this isn’t the truth. Her anger mainly concerns breakfast, which has been derailed enough times that the first strips of bacon burned to a smoking crisp.

“You _won’t_ burn,” she says, pulling pink bacon from butcher’s paper, giving it a frown.

Howl, to his credit, had attempted to cook breakfast with Sophie until she scraped the blackened bits from the pan with such a ferocity that he heeded her inherent warning and opened the door the next time. A stint as dispatcher to rude callers querying did little to improve his self-pity.

Settling himself into a slump at the table with a stack of documents and a few books was, in Sophie’s opinion, more practical than being shouted at or brooding.

Howl gives reaction now to the thumping at the door. One hand rests curled under his chin in thought as he pores over papers after papers. The knocking stops and someone stomps away from the threshold.

“No, it’s not that.” He snorts, but declines to elucidate, going back to reading. His fingertips shift the papers in an absent way, but his mouth is a nearly concealed line of concentration. There is no immediate balm, it seems, for a bruised ego.

“It’s only a day’s fishing,” Sophie says, firm, but consoling.

Howl shakes his head without another word.

What a mood! Sophie will inform anyone who thinks to the contrary -- Howl is capable, but he’s vain and unused to being held to large amounts of responsibility.

It makes her feel a paired instinct to shake Howl’s shoulders and tell him _sulking over it isn’t helping anyone, especially not you!_ and to give an indignant earful to the next fisherman grumbling up to their door. _He’s a busy man! He’s a father and a royal wizard and my husband and he’s been generous to all of you to a fault! Stop being so callous!_

He’s even oblivious to the renewed shouts of Morgan when Sophie approaches with food. Working hard at ostensible sadness.

“Eggs! Eggs!” Morgan holds out a pink hand. “But who was at the door!”

”Don’t mind it, darling,” she says, sliding three plates laden with eggs, bacon and a scone apiece onto the table.

Howl is oblivious to even hot buttered scones with jam.

Morgan helps himself.

“I’ll let you put jam on if you don’t pile on too much,” Sophie says, having caught Morgan’s spoon in a gleeful dip to the jar. “You have to finish your milk too.”

Morgan sets to eating his breakfast with a toddler’s good spirits, immune to the morose concentration of his father.

Sophie decides to help herself in the interim.

“Well?" she asks her sulking husband. "Did you figure anything out?”

 “Only what I’ve said.” He doesn’t look up. He mumbles something under his breath, the words “wrong with me,” only just audible.

“Wrong with you how? What’s wrong with you that hasn’t been before?”

A testy, beleaguered sigh responds. “What if it’s karma? I have too many things to pay back, you know. I’d need a receipt to keep it straight.”

Sophie gives into a deserved eyeroll. “You’re having a meltdown because of a work failure? Howl, Porthaven is overdramatizing. And you’re a wizard in the king’s employ, overdramatizing like a child to the disappointment of one spell.”

Howl’s head finally lifts, slowly and deliberate, his upturned face covered in misery.

“Three!” says Howl. He holds up a trio of fingers, stiff as a devil’s trident.

“Three?”

“Three spells in less than that many weeks.” He thrusts his face into his hands suddenly and doubles over onto the table. His blond hair spills over his shoulders to cover him, a flaxen shroud, a white flag.

Sophie isn’t concerned. She remembers green slime from just over five years ago. She remembers Twinkle from the visit to High Norland. He can throw an excellent tantrum whether he’s 27 or pretending to be a schoolboy and no matter what the cause of it, he has to make a show of displeasure before sorting it out. The fact that he recently celebrated his 32nd birthday, Sophie muses, is of no point.

She opens her mouth to say just this when there’s a clatter and Calcifer swoops in from the chimney. Old ash sprinkles on the floor from his velocity, gliding over to Howl with menace. He stops short and instead only vibrates with menace, seeing Howl’s prone figure in self-induced helplessness.

Calcifer’s look turns to pity. His eyebrows remain knitted at Howl until he’s greeted.

“Mornin’ Calcifer!” Morgan yells, syllables obscured through a mouth of eggs.

“Morning, Morgan, Sophie.” Calcifer reply is even. “ _Howl_.”

“How are you Calcifer?” asks Sophie.

“It’s a morning,” says Howl, voice muffled against the table.

 Morgan swallows his eggs before speaking, noticing Sophie's sharp look. “Dad got a bad spell for the fishermens and they keep coming back at the house to yell.”

“That would explain. Was it that bad of a spell he gave?”

“It was ‘pposed to rain and didn’t.” Morgan’s fingers danced over the scone on his father’s plate.

Sophie moved Morgan’s fingers. “No, it really wasn’t that bad. It was more insult to injury on both parties, I suppose.”

“Dad’s throwin’ a tantrum,” Morgan added. “I should get his scone then!”

“It’s par for the course.” Calcifer gives a sidelong glance at Howl. “The theatrics, I mean. Can he ever react without them?”

“He needs a time-out,” says Morgan.

“He needs to grow up,” Sophie replies.

“He needs,” comes another muffled voice under Howl’s hair, “all of you to talk about me as though I’m still here.”

Calcifer chuckles. “You don’t mind us talking about you if you weren’t here? Sounds fine by me.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Well, until you can't join the rest of us like an adult you’re not in the adult conversation.” Sophie holds up her head to look at Calcifer, in a keen, unmistakable gesture of ignoring Howl. “He says there’s something wrong, but he’s been remarkably silent except to say it doesn’t matter if it’s a small spell ruined because he’s had two before it recently fail.”

“One of which is exactly the point of my ire,” says Calcifer, crossing his spindly little arms. “I came over in a rush to give him words but I feel bad kicking him when he’s down.” Calcifer blinks for moment before he adds, “Almost. I’m quite angry.”

“Settle in the hearth and we’ll talk it over.” Sophie stacks Morgan’s empty plate atop hers and gathers the silverware. “We’re almost finished with breakfast." She waits, holding out a hand for a Morgan's tin cup as Morgan gulps down the last of his milk. Her eyes sweep over to Howl with a frown, before picking up his scone. She trades the scone for Morgan’s cup, to the boy’s glee.

“Is this a situation I can help?” Sophie asks Calcifer over her shoulder, running water into the sink. “Morgan, stay at the table til you’ve finished and eat over the napkin!”

Calcifer snorts, sending sparks flying up the hearth. After a moment of thought, he says, “I’m not sure. How much stock do you put in your husband’s virtues?”

*

**Monday, 11:49 am**

“I did not!” Howl shouts.

“That is a bald-face lie.” Calcifer draws himself up for the retort. “The biggest—“

“I didn’t intend to!”

Howl thrusts out his hands, palm-up, the long sleeves of his robe fluttering after his arm. “Lord, you’d think I killed someone the way you’re going on.”

“I can’t be angry?” Orange eyes roll. “Appropriately even? Or moreover because you didn’t intend to get me into a sticky spot I shouldn’t be?”

“At least you got him to talk,” says Sophie, a shade impassively.

Howl rounds on her now, coiling into a rueful ball of disagreement. “Fine! I’ll be quiet again.”

 “In what world is that a threat?” Calcifer asks, with a laugh.

“Stay out of it!” Howl jabs a finger into his direction, only eliciting another laugh, low but not mean from Calcifer.

“It’s _between_ us, Howl,” he says.

Sophie leans across the table to peer out into the yard. Through the door ajar, Morgan is gathering fistfuls of flowers --mostly weeds -- and collecting them in a tin. An idyllic afternoon for it, with warm air and dappled sunshine through the trees and him being away from shouting.

She didn’t care if Morgan learned something about his father’s behavior that was less than savory. It was to be expected. But no sooner than Calcifer’s story developed into an argument (courtesy Howl) she raced for an activity Morgan could do (without her) that didn’t involve the sort of discussions in which certain words might be said. Sophie and Howl already said more accidental swears around tender ears than they intended.

When she's sure Morgan is well, Sophie sits back and crosses her arms.

“From what I see,” she begins slowly, “Howl sold someone a spell in Market Chipping, something suited for fire demon magic and Calcifer agreed, but Howl didn’t let Calcifer in on the particulars …for reasons that are contradictory between the two of you. And honestly irrelevant if we want to move forward with all this. Calcifer can’t do the task and we have an unhappy customer?”

“Who has been relentless!” Calcifer sparked. “The girl Howl sold it to is a witch, turns out, and though not a clever one who understands how my magic works, is quite good at tracking spells. It’s been days. I’ve had enough.”

Sophie narrows her eyes at Howl, who remains quiet. “Why didn’t you tell her no?”

_Howl has begun to slither out already!_  He waves a hand in a show of being jovial.

“Answer the question, Howl.”

“Or you’ll answer to the girl,” Calcifer adds, “after I’ve turned you into a toad. Remember toads?”

Howl’s nonchalant waving pauses in mid-air.

“I couldn’t say no,” he concedes, dropping his hand to the table. “She had big, round, sad eyes. She was young, and looked scared. I knew she was a witch. She admittedly reminded me of you, Sophie, the first time I saw you on May Day.” A smile warms his face, directed inwardly, at his own thoughts.

Sophie is at a loss for words but doesn’t let that stop her from sputtering, “So you sold her something she couldn’t use?” The _feelings_ those words bring out, and with his beatific smile. _The first time I saw you_. It might completely melt a woman of lesser grit instead of softening her a bit. Sophie was not that woman.

Howl goes on, undeterred.

“She differs from in magic definitely. She clearly wasn’t a very powerful witch, but this look –“ He juts his chin, tosses his hair, his shoulders still hunched. “Of being stubborn and terrified. That was you, Sophie dear. I could imagine it instantly, when you were my little gray mouse.”

“But you still,” says Sophie, in a desperate manner of clinging to her reasons, “cheated her on some level!”

“Forgive me for remembering that and letting my heart guide me!" Howl counters. "I spent too long after putting up with the look you’re giving me now—"

“I have a right to be a party of any business you involve me in,” Calcifer mutters from the grate, not mollified but not willing to argue any further.

“I’m not going to lecture you,” Sophie sniffs.

“A first,” Howl says back.

“You never learn, to begin with.”

“So is this one of the three dodgy spells?” Calcifer says a bit louder, holds up three wiggling fingers. Obviously wanting to solve matters before the two of them plunge into words again.

“Three dodgy spells sounds like a fairy tale.” The corners of Sophie's mouth subdue a smile in desperation and fail.

“Yes. The other was the divination for the weather. You remember,” Howl says, with a voice flat enough to ride a cart on, “that old thing.”

Despite the tone, he’s fidgeting in his seat. “And I’ll come clean now, since my darling wife will push it out sooner or later without letting me save face. The weather spell was...it was much of the same.”

Sophie flushes hotly for a second. “You gave them a spell you knew was wrong?”

“Nothing of the sort, Sophie darling!” Howl looks genuinely wounded. “I’ve been busy, you know. The court meetings on foreign policy, then a few spells of the errand-boy variety. Only they come from the king, so they’re royal business, not private royal business. My mind’s been everywhere.”

Sophie waits, letting him have no out. Howl’s eyes roll sidelong to meet Calcifer’s, who refuses to share a meaningful look of understanding.

“I couldn’t take it back,” Howl sighs. “A storm on Monday and a storm on next Friday. The Friday storm is certain but it wasn’t until …” He pauses, counts silently backward on his fingers. “Oh, perhaps 9 in the evening on Monday I realized I’d remembered something wrong. I felt _bad_ for them, you know."

“You couldn’t look them in the eye and say, ‘I was wrong?’ then. Ah, yes. Because it’s _difficult_ \--”

“Bother you,” he replies to Sophie, without much assurance. “I’ve laid my feelings bare and explained myself. I am squirming in my seat as we speak. I haven’t had to find reason for anything this much in so long. It’s exhausting.”

“And after all that self-pity,” Calcifer adds. “It must be tiring.”

“The pair of you are the worst!” His eyes squeeze shut as he looks away, giving Sophie an elegant view of his profile. But not turning far enough that she can’t see pain on his face. He opens one eye a peek to make sure she can. “I can’t believe I’ve entered into important contracts with both of you at points in my life.”

This statement is so absurd that Sophie bursts into surprised laughter.

“You aren’t in danger of dying by marrying me!” she says, resting her arms on the table in support. “So it isn’t the same.”

“And you can’t compare that contract to marriage at all.” Calcifer bounds from the hearth. “I couldn’t do that. I was tied to the house. Some marriage!”

“There were proposals in both,” Howl smirks. “And you both said yes.”

The backdoor bangs open and Morgan barrels through. In a cloud of dirt and loudness, he runs around the table and thrusts a dandelion and flower-weed bouquet to Howl’s face.

“Are these for me?” The look he gives their son makes Sophie’s heart swell, in the same manner when she remembers May Day. “Thank you, Morgan, my boy!” He ruffles Morgan’s hair with a smile, one of those lovely inward ones.

Calcifer catches Sophie's eye and she wants to let him all is well, and for that, she's grateful.

_Of course I said yes_ , Sophie thinks, looking back at Howl.  _You vain, kind, generous, lovely, awful man_ . But instead of admitting something they both know is true (love runs deeper than any binding contract) she says nothing. Like the shared look with Calcifer, she doesn't try talking over feelings words could never give added weight to.

“I picked them cause you were sad!” Morgan is saying to Howl, beaming and tolerating the hair ruffling.

Sophie thinks of a question.

“And the third spell?" she asks. "The other one you messed about with?”

Before Howl can open his mouth to deflect a real answer, there’s an abrupt pounding on the door.

“Kingsbury,” Calcifer announces, out of habit.

Howl pats Morgan on the head gingerly and avoids Sophie’s look and the increased knocking. “ _That_ would be concerning the third spell, then.”

 

*

 

 

_PROLOGUE_

 

**Monday 10:30 pm**

  

“Thank you, Calcifer.”

Sophie looks away from the stars. They make her feel small sometimes and the vastness of the sky is too immense to ponder tonight. The fire demon bobs at her side, waiting to bid farewell for now, some business to take care of. Is it an irony that one of the truest friends, one that draws her world closer was once a star himself?

He stops a moment, floating in the warm evening air. “Thanks for what, might I ask?”

“You keep him honest.” She laughs. “Sometimes it feels like you’re a halfway balance between us.”

Calcifer agrees with a smile. “He’s quite an idiot, but he loves you, you realize. And obviously you do too, since he’s still alive.”

“It means more than you know,” Sophie says quietly, knowing Calcifer understands. The fact that he came back, stays around. The simplicity of friendship and all that passed between them. He does.

Calcifer waves her a good-bye before flicking up into the night, looking less like a star than an ember from a fire, something familiar and welcoming.

_Enjoy the calm_ , she thinks, before heading inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
